


Space Oddity

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: ANYTHING GOES: Custom Fic Prompts for All & Sundry [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hardcore, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Roan survives the conclave and ends up going to space instead of Echo.  Shenanigans ensue.





	Space Oddity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT: 'So, like, it's okay if you'd prefer something else but I would like *reeeaaally* love a Bellamy x Roan hardcore smut fic (in Bellamy's POV)? Lol. I'm thinking like maybe Roan chains Bellamy in a cave and, er, fucks him hard? LOLOL. Maybe even it could be set in 3x02 when Clarke is watching because THAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED."
> 
> NOTE: I varied up the setting slightly because I had an idea to stitch a couple prompt fills together into one 'verse, but I hope this still scratches your trash itch, my friend!

It wasn’t Roan’s fault.

Bellamy knew it wasn't Roan's fault, he knew everyone else knew it wasn't Roan's fault, there was no possible construction of events that could permit him to make any of this actually Roan's fault.  But that didn't stop him from blaming him anyway.

He hated himself for it a little - what had Roan done, except volunteer for a potentially suicidal mission to rescue Raven, leaving his own people behind in the bunker, because he trusted Clarke to get them back in time? - but he also didn't stop. 

The problem was, there was no one to blame, and Bellamy was feeling too many things that had no outlet except in anger, but he couldn't take it out on anyone else.  If you were going to be brutally, cruelly honest, the person who'd drawn them all to the island in the first place was Raven, but not in a thousand years would Bellamy dream of laying any fault at her door for this, knowing what he now knew - as she gradually revealed more and more to him about everything that had happened to her on the island since they'd parted ways at Arkadia what felt like a lifetime ago.  And Raven was already blaming herself plenty.  He had his hands full just trying to keep her from wearing herself thin trying to take responsibility for everything.  She alternated between high highs and low lows, sometimes as giddy as her old self on days she got to spacewalk again, sometimes staring down at the scorched planet below them, fires still smoldering across its surface visible for days after they'd arrived, in bleak melancholy, and he knew she was running through alternate scenarios in her head, like she wouldn't truly believe it wasn't her fault until she'd mapped out every single variable.

But it wasn't her fault.  He told her over and over, hoping someday it would stick.  She'd done everything right.  And all the others had done was risk their lives to come along and try to save her.  Even Emori, who'd almost died here, and Roan, who owed them all nothing.  Everyone had done everything right.

Roan, in fact, had done a lot more than Bellamy or anyone else could reasonably have expected.  In the manner of people who have been so used to authority their whole life that they instinctively recognize and respect it in others, the moment they set foot in the lab and were once more back on Raven's turf, Roan took his metaphorical crown off and more or less never put it back on again.  If he was angry that back in the bunker, his people were now under the leadership of Octavia and Indra and Kane instead of himself, he didn't show it.  He worked hard, learned fast, followed Raven's orders to the letter, and did everything that was asked of him.  Even Bellamy was forced, albeit grudgingly, to concede that they'd never have made it off the ground without him.

But still.

Roan was here, and Clarke wasn't.

There was no one to blame, for any of it.  But it felt good to resent Roan anyway.

To Roan's credit, he took it well.  His friendship with Clarke had hit more than its share of rough patches, but it had been real, and he'd taken the loss harder than any of them would have thought.  Had, in fact, nearly blown the whole thing by insisting - no, _commanding_ \- that Raven hold the doors open for her to come back.  Bellamy had demanded, Harper had pleaded, even Emori had snapped that they couldn't leave without her, and then Roan put the crown back on, and they all got to hear him use that voice he'd put away since their arrival.  The voice of a man nobody ever said no to, the voice of a man who would kill without a second thought to get what he needed.  He'd simply _ordered_ Raven to keep the doors open, and for a full twenty-five seconds longer she actually did it, until she finally couldn't hold out any longer, slamming the button and rounding on him with furious tears in her eyes and snapping "It's over."  They had to leave _now_ , or the rocket would never get off the ground, and they'd all be incinerated. 

They'd stared each other down for a long, still moment, before Roan finally resumed his seat, silent and cold and angry, and didn't speak again until they landed on the Ark.

The King of Azgeda had more or less evaporated, after that.

Bellamy knew Raven had been right.  They all knew.  They hadn't had a choice.  But they dreamed about it every night anyway.

* * *

 

For the first few days, no one said much.  It was all hands on deck, all over the station, to get the basic systems up and running, so they mostly subsisted on emergency ration bars while working all day long and no one saw much of each other.  Monty had his hands full with the algae farm, and he was training Harper to run the water filtration systems, while Raven was busy getting life support back online so they weren't trapped on just the one wing of one deck for five whole years.  Emori, who'd turned out to have more of a knack than anyone had guessed for engineering and technology, had taken with alacrity to her new role as Raven's second-in-command.  Bellamy had wondered how Murphy would decide to fill his days, since his usual skills of sarcasm and petty crime weren't in high demand up here; but once Raven had gotten power back throughout the whole ring, allowing them free rein to spread out and make themselves at home, Bellamy stumbled upon Murphy one day in the central office of Med Bay, sitting with his feet up on Abby's old desk, immersed in a data tablet.

"The hell are you doing down here?"

"Well, we're down two Griffins," Murphy shrugged casually, without looking up, then seemed to feel Bellamy's wince without even seeing it, and appeared to regret his choice of words.  "Anyway," he went on hastily, "I'm gonna need something to do or I'll go crazy, and _someone's_ gotta figure out where we keep the damn bandages around here.”

"Good luck convincing anyone on this station to let you operate on them, Murphy."

"Suit yourself," Murphy retorted, going back to his book, "but don't come crying to me if you need an emergency appendectomy."

"I can definitely promise you I won't."

Harper had laughed when he told her about it later.  "Five years isn't nearly long enough to turn John Murphy into a doctor," she'd said, rolling her eyes.  "There aren't enough books on the whole Ark.  Or in the _world."_

But Bellamy wasn't sure.  Permitting himself, as he walked away from Med Bay, one of his vanishingly few moments of thinking about Abby Griffin (something he tried very hard not to do, ever, because he knew that that very next time he saw her he would have to be the one to tell her that her daughter was dead, which meant that even recollecting her existence was a misery), he reflected that Abby was probably the only person in the world who wouldn't be surprised by this at all.

So Monty was busy, and Harper was busy, and Raven was busy, and Emori was busy, and Murphy was busy, and Bellamy was busy keeping everything together.

Only Roan had nothing to do.

And because, on some deep primal level he couldn't quite understand and could never have explained to anyone else, he resented the very fact of Roan's presence more and more each day - as though somehow Roan was only here because Clarke wasn't  - Bellamy refused to make it easy on him.

In hindsight, the fact that a Grounder clan leader, who'd been born royalty and groomed all his life to be king, held out a full three weeks before he snapped, was something like a miracle.  Bellamy barked orders and criticized his work and assigned him all the worst jobs, from heavy lifting to waste disposal, and still Roan gritted his teeth and said nothing.  He didn’t push back when Bellamy assigned everyone’s temporary quarters and gave him the coldest, smallest room; and he didn't push back when all his suggestions, no matter how reasonable, were rejected the moment they were spoken; and he didn't push back when Bellamy's refusal to be anything more than frostily civil reached the point where even Murphy was uncomfortable.

They might have kept going like that for a full five years, if Roan hadn't made the mistake of bringing up Octavia.

* * *

It started at dinner.

More accurately, it started at the evening ritual Monty and Harper had begun insisting they think of as "dinner," even though they had algae for every meal, and there was no reason why they all had to take meal breaks at the same time, and it wasn't like sitting down around a table together made the green slime they were subsisting on any easier to get used to.  But this had been Harper's idea, and she'd held to it so stubbornly that eventually everyone yielded.  Harper fought Bellamy so rarely that when she did, it meant the thing was really important to her, so he always listened.  Something like routine, something like normalcy, the kind of ordinary human rituals they'd had so few opportunities, since landing on earth, to enjoy.  They might have nothing to eat but algae, they might be trapped here for five years with no idea whether their friends were alive or dead, and they might have lost the one person they'd all looked to from day one to guide them forward.  But at least, Harper argued, it was peacetime.  They didn't have to live like their lives were in danger anymore.  They could do things like sit around a table together at the end of the evening shift for a meal of algae and yellowish, processed water, and let Harper ask everyone how their day was, and within a few weeks they were all so accustomed to the ritual that they forgot they'd ever done without it.

The dinner in question started off innocuously enough.  "Mmmmmmm, algae, my favorite," Murphy drawled as they sat down, but he shut up once Raven kicked him under the table (with her bad leg, to cause maximum pain, since the metal corners of her leg brace were lethal when deployed appropriately).  Other than that, the meal passed without incident, the conversation ordinary and unremarkable, until Harper mentioned the list.

"She's a natural," Raven had been saying with a grin to the others, recounting how Emori's quick wits and impeccable memory had led her to recognize a piece of internal Ark circuitry she'd seen before (more than one of the crashed ships with no survivors had been stripped for "tek" by ALIE's scouts), from whence she'd helped Raven figure out how to get the entire station-wide intercom back online.  (This ended up being a mixed blessing, as no one used it but Murphy, and only when he was bored, but in the moment it had been a massive triumph for the new Grounder engineer).  "They could have used her back at the bunker."

"If I learned, others can learn," Emori had shrugged.  "When survival is on the line, you'd be surprised what people will do."

"Never thought I'd see Indra pick up a gun," Monty had agreed, "but I saw it with my own eyes."

"They'll figure it out," said Harper to Raven, with more confidence than she seemed to feel.  "They only have to survive down there for five years.  And the list . . ."

There was a tense silence at this, Harper's voice trailing off for a moment before she went on.  No one in the room had any pleasant memories about Clarke's list.

"It was brutal but it wasn't stupid," Murphy finally said.  "She'd have put a backup mechanic or two on there.  They can limp along, Raven-less, until we get back and then you can show whatever poor sap got stuck keeping the lights on and the water running everything he did wrong."

"That's what Octavia said," Roan spoke up, voice mild but with something flinty behind it.  Bellamy's head snapped up.

"What was?"

"That Skaikru engineers would be needed to operate Skaikru technology, and we would all be dead without you," he answered.  "That was what she said when I asked her why I shouldn't kill her when I had the chance, when it was just the two of us.  That was why we agreed to split the bunker."

"Why _you_ shouldn't kill _her_?" Bellamy repeated, astonished and annoyed.  "You and I both know that she was the one who had you at the wrong end of a sword and only let you live because you saved her from Luna.  Because she's a good person.  And she fought with honor."

"You still think she would have won, then.  If we'd fought, instead of calling the truce."

"Damn right I think she would have won.  You had to resort to cheating just to stay in the game."

"That's bullshit," Roan said evenly, "and you know it.  You watched me banish Echo myself."

"Sure didn't see you going to Gaia and turning yourself in, for benefiting from the advantage her cheating gave you in the first place."

Roan shrugged.  "I like Octavia," he said simply.  "I always have.  I'm glad I didn't have to kill her.  But if you think I wasn't capable of it, then you don't know me as well as you think you do, Bellamy."

The silence grew heavier and more tense.  The entire room seemed to have shrunk down to the size of the two men glaring at each other from across the table, one seething with barely-contained fury, the other still regally unflappable, in a manner deliberately calculated to annoy.  Roan seemed to take a perverse pleasure in showing Bellamy that the younger man wasn't getting to him, which only made Bellamy's anger burn hotter.

"Let's get one thing straight," Bellamy growled, leaning across the table.  "You and me, we aren't friends.  You were Clarke's friend, and you were useful, and we didn't leave your corpse to get burned alive by Praimfaya like we could have -"

"Bellamy," said Raven warningly, putting a hand on his arm, but he swatted it away.

"But five years stuck in this metal box is not enough time for me to forget that my sister almost died because of you."

"She knew what she was getting into when she volunteered for the conclave."

"I'm not talking about the conclave," Bellamy spat, and from the way Roan flinched it was clear that the blow had struck home.

"I told you," he said, struggling to maintain his patience.  "I told you, and told you.  I ordered Echo to bring her back alive.  Once she left my side, I wasn't in control of what she did."

"You fucking trained her.  Everything she knows, she learned from you."

"No, everything she knows, she learned from my mother.  Just like Ontari.  It isn't the same."

"She could have _died."_

"I know, Bellamy.  I was as relieved as anybody was.  Whatever else you think of me, I'm not a murderer.  But Octavia made choices, and those choices had consequences, and I think you're angry because she didn't run those choices by you first and give you a chance to lock her under the floorboards again and decide everything for her."

The words fell into the silence with an almost physical force.

“Go to hell,” Bellamy snarled, standing up from the table so abruptly his chair clattered to the floor behind him, and stormed out of the room.

* * *

His fury carried him out of the mess hall, over Raven's anxious protestations, and down the hall to the wing where they all now slept.  He was so angry he felt buoyant, weightless, like his body was propelled by a much stronger force than even gravity, like a tide was sweeping him away. 

 _How dare he.  How fucking_ dare _he._

What a relief, finally, to have a real thing to be angry at, to have pushed Roan past politeness so there was something to let himself freely resent.  It had been like trying to climb a glass wall, scrabbling against smooth surfaces, fingers unable to find purchase; Roan had rolled his eyes sometimes, and muttered sometimes, but mostly he'd just done whatever anyone asked of him, and when Bellamy was rude Roan never snapped back.  He just regarded Bellamy with a degree of appraising perceptiveness that made the younger man uncomfortable, and then he'd nod and walk away and go uncomplaining perform whatever shit task necessary for their survival he'd been assigned.

But he hadn't done that this time, and Bellamy was exultant with the dark rush of pleasure that now he could finally be angry about something real.

Back in his quarters, however, he wasn't given much of a chance to savor it.  He threw the door open, slammed it behind him, took a long swig of the white-hot experimental moonshine Monty had been testing, dimmed the lights and pulled off his shirt to prepare for bed.  The raw, echoing clang of metal against metal as the door was flung back open rang through the tiny room like an alarm bell and took him entirely by surprise.

"Fine," said Roan's voice behind him, "the floorboards thing was a low blow.  As to everything else, I've fucking _had_ it.  I've been giving you a pass because you're grieving, but now I'm done."

Bellamy didn't turn around right away.  He'd dropped his shirt on the chair by the door, and felt curiously self-conscious in Roan's presence without it, but he didn't want to reveal a weak spot by giving any indication that he wasn't entirely at ease.  So he stood, arms folded, his back stubbornly to the doorway.

"What, kings don't have to knock?"

"That's rich, coming from you, the one barking orders at everyone all fucking day.  Which I follow, by the way.  Not that you’ve noticed.  I’ve done every single thing you’ve asked me to do and I haven’t complained but you’re still acting like a damn teenager."  Bellamy was silent.  It felt so good to be angry at something again, to let it all out without restraint or guilt.

Then Roan's next words completely unstitched him.

"What is it, Bellamy?" he said, with something that, if it wasn't exactly kind, at least had a sort of comprehension in it.  "You want to be pissed at Clarke for dying, but you can't?" Bellamy froze.  "You are," said Roan, voice thoughtful, like the silence had somehow confirmed it.  "You're furious.  You're about to lose it.  You're so pissed at her, you're pissed at me."

As a tactic, the sudden and unexpected attack was very effective.  Bellamy had been perfectly ready to yell some more about Roan casually insulting his relationship with Octavia, but he hadn't counted on anyone _seeing_ him quite as clearly as this - even Raven hadn't - so he didn't have a defense ready.

"She wasn't supposed to leave, you were supposed to do this together, how can you do it without her, et cetera et cetera," said Roan a little dryly.  "And now here you are, shoved into a job you didn't ask for, making shit up as you go along until you can figure out your own way.  As if you're the only one of us that's happened to."

Bellamy did turn around at this, to see the older man leaning in his doorway, arms folded, regarding him thoughtfully.

"You're a good leader, even on your own," Roan observed.  “People listen to you.  People follow you.  You have it.  Clarke didn’t have it.”

“Yes, she did."

“Not right away,,” Roan countered mildly.  “Not instinctively. She had to _learn_ it.  She had brains and she had grit but she didn’t have the thing you have, the thing that makes everybody listen.  She learned things from you.  And you learned things from her.  You were a good team.  I always thought so."

“Thanks.  I guess.”

“But she’s _gone_ ,” Roan went on, without stopping, the words so terrible in their calm, brutal honesty that Bellamy felt like he'd been slapped across the face.  “She’s dead.  It happened.  We were all there.  Nothing you can do now to change it.  You got two choices, Bellamy.  You live with the loss, and you move on, and you try to be the man she thought you were; or you spend the next five years trapped in a tin can with me and blaming me for something I didn’t do.”

Bellamy was silent.  Roan sighed.

"One way or another, this petty bullshit ends today," he said, and then - so swiftly it knocked the air out of Bellamy's lungs - Roan seized him by both shoulders and shoved. 

Hard.

Bellamy collided with the wall, hearing a dull thud as his head met cold metal, and the blinding shock of pain left him off-balance for a moment.

"The _fuck_ did you do that for?"

"Hit me," said Roan, as though it was the most obvious, sensible thing in the world.  “One punch.  Just not above the neck, or below the waist.  I’m fine trusting Murphy with some light bruising, but I don’t want to put a broken jaw in his hands just yet."

"You're crazy."

"I'm really not."

“I’m not gonna hit you, Roan.”

“I can tell you want to.”

“I’ve wanted to for a long damn time and I haven’t done it yet.”

“Octavia would probably tell you it felt pretty damn good,” Roan offered dryly, with the hint of a smile, and the sound of his sister's name on Roan's lips cracked something open inside Bellamy again, letting all that anger pour out of it like a rushing tidal wave.

So he balled up his fist, and swung.

Roan caught his wrist so effortlessly that Bellamy hardly even noticed him moving. “Come on, man,” he said disdainfully, gripping Bellamy's arm like an iron vise, and twisting just slightly enough to make the point.  “Don’t insult me with that shit.  If you’re gonna do it, do it for real.”

Then he let go, waited expectantly, and Bellamy swung again.

This time Roan dodged.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Bellamy spluttered, cheeks flushing with irritation turning into anger.  Roan had sidestepped him so swiftly that Bellamy hadn’t even seen it coming until his fist met nothing but air.  Being goaded into a physical fight was infuriating enough, but that Roan barely seemed to be putting any effort into evading the blow he'd told Bellamy to take in the first place made him seethe.  They were in the king's wheelhouse, here;  Roan had trained in hand-to-hand combat his whole life, he was skilled and graceful and he made it look so easy that something like hate started to boil up inside Bellamy’s chest as the punch Roan had offered so casually remained elusive.

Of course.  That's _why_ he had offered.  He'd told Bellamy to hit him because he didn't think Bellamy could do it.

His third swing went wide as Roan ducked beneath his arm, but this time Bellamy was ready, slamming into the king with the entire force of his body, muscle crashing into muscle, shoving him up against the wall.  But he hadn't braced his stance, so all it took was a step and a push until Roan had neatly flipped their positions, bracing his knee between Bellamy's thighs and planting his entire weight to keep the younger man pinned against the cold metal wall.

"Feel better?" he asked dryly.

“Fuck you.”

"Or we could do that,” Roan shrugged, "I just thought this was more efficient.  But it's your call."

"What are you -" Bellamy started to say, but his words vanished into thin air as Roan suddenly, startlingly, bent his head and kissed him.

Bellamy had never been so stunned in his whole life.  He couldn't move.  Roan's mouth opened and closed against his, hot, hungry, searching, and his hands released their grip on Bellamy's wrists to slide down the sides of his bare chest and grip his waist.  Roan's touch against his skin made Bellamy shiver, but he still didn't lower his hands, motionless in his captive position as the heat of furious anger boiling inside him began to simmer over into a very different kind of heat altogether, and Bellamy felt buoyant again, carried along by a force greater than he was, and he yielded to it, unresisting.  His hips lifted off the wall, straining forward to the place where Roan had planted a thigh between both of Bellamy's own, and he felt Roan chuckle a little, buried in Bellamy's throat, tracing slow lines with his tongue up and down the tendons.

"Greedy," Roan observed, but he moved in, letting Bellamy grind fruitlessly against the iron-hard bulk of his thigh, both of them achingly aware of how fast Bellamy's cock was swelling inside his jeans. 

"What the fuck is happening?" Bellamy whispered hoarsely as Roan stepped back just far enough to tug off his own shirt before returning for another rough kiss.

"It was either fighting or fucking," said Roan, "and this way's a lot less painful."  He paused, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.  "For _me,_ anyway."


End file.
